Page 49 of The Virgin's Dance
She searched the studio, knowing what she was about to find, but when she did, she knew she could never be prepared. Pilot lay on his stomach, his arms flailed out at his sides, his eyes closed. Despite the black color of his suit, she could see the blood, the stab wounds in his upper back. She dropped to his side and tried to turn him over. He was lying in a pool of blood and at first, she couldn’t tell where he had been stabbed. She listened for his breath, trying to still her own gasps of horror. He was breathing—barely.
“Baby, please hold on, please, please …” She heard sirens coming closer and a minute later, Romana, Blair, and Grady burst into the room as Boh tried desperately to keep the blood inside her lover’s body.
She looked up at them, tears pouring down her face. “She stabbed him … she stabbed him … no, no, please, Pilot, don’t go, stay with me …stay with me…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hollow.
That was how Boh felt as they waited in the relatives room of the hospital. She’d seen the loaded glances of the paramedics as they fought to save Pilot’s life—it didn’t look good.
When they’d opened his shirt, Boh had seen the stab wounds in his chest. Too near his heart. Eugenie had been merciless. The police were looking for the blonde socialite now, after both Boh and Blair had told them they had no doubt that Eugenie had done this. She’d planned it all—the call to the gallery to ask for the provenances, knowing Pilot wouldn’t send someone else, knowing he would go collect them himself. She’d waited for him, then attacked him. His arms and hands were covered in cuts, defensive wounds, but Eugenie had had the element of surprise.
Boh couldn’t stop picturing it, the knife sinking into Pilot’s back, then, as he fell, that demon woman on top of him, stabbing him over and over.
God, please, Pilot … please, fight. Fight.
Romana, her usual exuberance gone, her face pale, suddenly turned up the television.
“A night of triumph and terror for world-renowned photographer Pilot Scamo. After the triumph of his new show,Boh, by Scamo, the 40-year-old now lies in hospital, fighting for his life after being stabbed in his studio. Although police have yet to confirm it, it is rumored that Mr. Scamo’s ex-wife, Eugenie Radcliffe-Morgan is a person of interest in this horrific crime. The attack comes a week after Mr. Scamo’s muse and rumored lover, ballet dancer Boheme Dali, was reportedly injured after during a performance.”
“Turn it off, please.” Boh put her head in her hands as she heard Romana click the television off. She felt Blair put her arms around her.
“He’ll be okay. My boy knows how to fight.” But she didn’t sound convinced. Boh hugged her back tightly.
“Give me five minutes with that bitch and I’ll make sure she never hurts anyone again.” Romana was furious and hurting, Boh knew. She tried to smile at her almost-sister-in-law.
“Join the queue,” she said.
They sat waiting for hours, then finally, a surgeon came to see them. Although he had changed, there was a smear of blood on his scrubs, dark red, and Boh couldn’t take her eyes off it. His blood. Pilot’s blood. Oh God …
“We’ve stabilized him, but there will be a long recovery—if he makes it through the next few days. The knife penetrated his heart, but we think we’ve managed to repair it. He’s fighting, which is good, but I expect him to remain unconscious for a few days.” He sat down next to them. “That’s a good thing—it gives his body the chance to recover. He’s in good condition, the right weight for his age, and obviously fit. It’s all positive, but we should still take pause. His injuries are serious, and he remains a critical patient.”
“Can we see him?”
The doctor patted Boh’s hand. “Would you be upset if I asked you to wait until he’s out of recovery? An hour or two, then you can all sit with him.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Bair nodded at him and Romana shook his hand.
The three women were allowed to see Pilot an hour and a half later, and Blair and Romana sat one side while Boh sat on the other, holding his hand. He was so still, his dark curls flat against his skin, usually so olive and swarthy, now pale and drained. Dark violet shadows were under his eyes. Boh bent down and kissed his cool lips. “I love you,” she whispered, “please come back to me.”
After two days, Blair made Boh go home to shower and sleep. “I’ll call you the moment anything happens,” she promised as she firmly steered Boh into a cab.
At home, Boh felt the silence ringing through their apartment. The emptiness she felt inside overwhelmed her and she broke down, curling up on the floor of the living room and sobbing all her pain out. As her sobs finally quieted, she fell into an uneasy, exhausted sleep.
Waking a couple of hours later, she dragged her aching body into the shower and stood under the hot water for long minutes. She’d barely eaten since Pilot’s stabbing, and now she felt the need to eat something. Pilot would need her to be strong for him for months now.
She checked her voicemails, listening to all of her friends calling to check in, asking after Pilot, telling her how sorry they were. She’d call them back later—it would distract her from watching over Pilot. God. It was hell watching him, unable to talk to him, knowing that he was in such pain. She wanted to take all that pain into herself and save him from it.
Her cell phone rang as she was scarfing down scrambled eggs and she grabbed it, hoping to see either Blair or Ramona’s name.
“Miss Dali?”
“Yes?”
“Jack Grissom here, detective with the NYPD.” It was the detective who had shown up at the crime scene—he had been kind and polite.
“Hi …” Her heart began to beat quickly. “Detective, tell me there’s good news.”
